The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Yes."

  "The brandy isn't bad. More?"

  "Aspirin next," she said firmly, and placed one tablet on his tongue. "If you prefer washing it down with brandy we can dispense with the water."

  "Loathe water," he said, and gulped down two aspirin with huge draughts of brandy. "What are the prospects?" he gasped, lying back.

  "Dim," replied Mrs. Pollifax dryly. "General Perdido has been in to look you over. You have considerably frustrated him by injuring yourself so badly, and he left in disgust." She added in a low voice that Lulash could not hear, "It might be wise of you, when anyone comes in again, to continue talking as wildly as possible, and to see things crawling up and down the walls."

  He whispered back, "That's delirium tremens, not fever. You'll make a bloody alcoholic out of me."

  In a louder voice, and tartly, she said, "In your weakened condition, and with all the brandy you've just consumed, you will soon be in precisely that state."

  Lulash slipped the aspirin bottle into his pocket and showed signs of leaving. Mrs. Pollifax arose and reached for his hand. "Thank you," she said warmly, shaking it. "We both thank you very much."

  "Is all right," he said, nodding and smiling.

  When he had gone Mrs. Pollifax sat down abruptly on her cot, realizing how terribly tired she was. Farrell, watching her, said, "You look exhausted, Duchess, for God's sake get some sleep. I'll try to limit my ravings for a while."

  Mrs. Pollifax looked at him in the flickering eerie light of the candle and realized how very fond of him she was becoming. "It is comforting not to be alone," she thought. She stood up and rolled back the mattress to arrange the slats around the two that were missing. "It has been rather a long day," she admitted aloud, and lying down she fell at once into an exhausted sleep.

  Eleven

  On the twenty-third of August Carstairs sat down in his office to review the Mexico City fiasco with a man named Thaddeus Peattie. Peattie came from another department; he was extremely interested in all matters concerning Mao Tse-tung and he was one of the few Americans to have personally known Rauol Perdido—they had met frequently in China during the war when Perdido was a member of Mao's guerrillas and Peattie was a liaison officer between Chiang Kai-shek and the guerrillas.

  "There hasn't been a sign of Farrell or Mrs. Pollifax being smuggled into Cuba," Carstairs said, offering Peattie and Bishop cigarettes. "This doesn't for a moment exclude their being there. They could have landed at night in some secluded area and been whisked into solitary confinement or killed at once. But General Perdido hasn't been sighted in Cuba, either. I think we can say without any doubt at all that Perdido is not in Cuba at the moment."

  "South America?" suggested Peattie. "Mexico? Perdido is a Mexican by birth, after all. Need he have left Mexico at all?"

  "He's not particularly welcome there," pointed out Carstairs. "If he's still there he would certainly be in hiding. What we want to know is where he would go if he left the country. Where's that report from Belmonte?" he asked of Bishop.

  Bishop riffled through the pile of papers on his lap and efficiently extracted the needed sheet. Carstairs handed it over to Peattie. "It's common knowledge that the Russians have used Mexico as a takeoff point for spies and defectors in this hemisphere. We know of two secret landing strips used by the Reds for smuggling people out. These strips," he added pointedly, "are not entirely unobserved, as you will see by this report from—an observer, shall we say?"

  Peattie picked up the report.

  "As you will note," continued Carstairs, "there has been some activity observed in this lower California landing strip. A plane—a four-engine prop—was reported landing there on the night of August 19. It was on this day that General Perdido closed the doors of the Parrot Bookstore and vanished from sight. It is also on this day that Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax visited the Parrot Bookstore and vanished."

  "Mmm," murmured Peattie, frowning. "This report says that two people were carried aboard this plane."

  "Yes, carried. On stretchers."

  "Definitely a Russian-made plane," read Peattie aloud. "Markings thought to be Cuban." He returned the sheet to Carstairs. "You say that our beautiful Miss Willow Lee has also left Mexico City?"

  Carstairs nodded. "Yes, but she left on a registered flight, destination Peking, and has already arrived in Hong Kong."

  "Then it's not likely that she and General Perdido were the passengers taken aboard that plane," mused Peattie.

  "Not on stretchers," remarked Carstairs dryly.

  "No, not on stretchers," agreed Peattie with a quick smile. "Perdido is of course the key to this. If he's involved—and from what you've implied this whole affair is big enough to interest him—then he's the man to trace, of course. The two others, dead or alive, could be anywhere but are doubtless with him. Or were." He stood up and walked to the map on the wall and stood before it, his hands locked behind his back. "I hate to say this," he remarked. "At least I assume you're grimly hoping to regain or trace these two agents of yours. But if General Perdido is not in Cuba—and surely by now he would have been seen there by someone—then I fear the general would have headed for Red China."

  "This department does not grimly hope," said Carstairs in a hard voice. "No, my dear Peattie, the names of Farrell and Pollifax have been crossed off all earthly lists as far as we are concerned."

  "Then I don't think I understand," said Peattie, returning to his chair and sitting down.

  Carstairs hesitated. "You might call our investigation fifty per cent precaution and fifty per cent conscience. We don't want any international incidents growing out of it, for instance."

  "You mean like the U-2 affair," cut in Peattie dryly.

  "Right. We want to"—his voice softened apologetically— "we have to be sure these two people are dead. We have to have proof. "Peattie nodded. "I'll send out feelers at once, of course. I think that within four days—a week at the most—I can tell you whether General Perdido is or has been in China." He gave Carstairs a curious glance and said, "And the fifty per cent conscience—or isn't that any of my business?"

  Carstairs sighed. "I'm thinking of Mrs. Pollifax. The late Mrs. Pollifax, I fear. You didn't know her, of course. Perhaps I can give you a capsule picture of her if I tell you that she strolled in here one day and asked if we needed any spies."

  Peattie looked at Carstairs in open-mouthed astonishment

  Carstairs nodded. "A comfortable little woman in her sixties, with a charmingly direct way of going about things. Asked Mason if there was something she could do for us. Rather like volunteering for work at a charity fete. Hellishly innocent and naive, but so patently right for the tourist I needed that I gobbled her up, so to speak."

  Peattie gave him a sympathetic glance. "I see," he said quietly. "She knew the risks?"

  "Oh yes, she knew the risks. But she left without indoctrination, without training, without a cyanide pill."

  "Fortunes of war," pointed out Peattie softly. "Necessity is a ruthless mistress."

  Carstairs sighed. "No one knows that better than I, but I haven't been sleeping too well these past three nights. From a practical viewpoint it's she who could become the international incident—she is so clearly usable, because of her innocence. But what is far more likely—"

  He stopped and Peattie said wryly, "Don't torture yourself, my friend—don't."

  "I try not to," Carstairs said with a bitter smile. "Let us say very simply that I must now think of plausible telegrams to send to the woman's relatives explaining why she is not en route home from Mexico at this moment, and that eventually—once her death is substantiated—I must arrange some plausible death for her in Mexico."

  "Stevens is working on that now," put in Bishop. "A boating accident has been suggested, with no body recovered. Either a chartered boat off Acapulco or a freak drowning at Xochimilco. Mexico is being very helpful."

  "How nice," said Carstairs sourly. "Then her son and daughter will hold a memorial service for
her and have her name cut on a stone in the family plot and say 'What a way for Mother to go' and they will never guess how their mother did die, or for what purpose, or know that half a dozen people in Washington, D.C., and Mexico City worked over the details, making their mother's death palatable and acceptable to them."

  "I get the point, you needn't labor it," said Peattie gently. "But you must know by now that inevitably there's one person for whom one feels unusually responsible."

  Carstairs nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "I ought to know that by now, Peattie. Rum job, what?"

  "Rum job," agreed Peattie, and stood up. "I've got the picture now. I can promise you information, positive or negative, within the week. I wish it could be sooner but China still moves pretty much by oxcart in spite of Mao's boasts to the contrary."

  "Thanks—well take anything we can get."

  When he had gone Carstairs lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and gave Bishop a weary smile. "I don't know whether you saw the message that came in late last evening or not. Tirpak is dead. A knife in the back in Guatemala about a week ago, the identification just made."

  Bishop sighed. "What you'd call a clean sweep then. No, I haven't had time to catch up on last night's communiqués."

  "They make lively reading—there's even more," added Carstairs wryly. "Our photographic-supply friend in Costa Rica processed all the information that Tirpak brought him, and duly burned the papers. It took three days to get all of Tirpak's documents on film. There were six microfilms, but here's the sad news: Tirpak gave no indication of how these films were going to be conveyed to Mexico City, or in what form. Whatever he did next with them was done secretly. According to our friend in Costa Rica Tirpak picked up each microfilm with a pair of tweezers, dropped them one by one into a plain white envelope, and left."

  "Ouch," said Bishop.

  Carstairs nodded. "Three days later he was murdered, but he must have started moving them toward Mexico City before then. What he did with them is anybody's guess but I would assume he planned to insert them into something printed— say a letter or a book."

  "You do think the microfilms reached Mexico City then."

  Carstairs nodded. 'Tirpak would have seen to that even at the cost of his life. He was that kind of man. What he couldn't have realized was just how closely he was being followed and watched—and just how closely those microfilms were being watched. Yes, I believe they reached Mexico City.

  They reached the Parrot Bookstore and DeGamez was killed

  because of them."

  "So General Perdido has the microfilms then."

  Carstairs frowned. "They're lost to us in any case, Bishop,

  but I'm not so sure that General Perdido has them, either.

  Take a close look at this timetable of events I've written

  out—see if it suggests anything to you." Bishop took the memo and read:

  August 17: probable date of DeGamez' murder

  August 17: General Perdido poses as DeGamez and installs himself at the Parrot Bookstore

  August 19: Mrs. Pollifax visits the Parrot Bookstore to pick up microfilms and vanishes

  August 19: Farrell visits the Parrot Bookstore for unknown reasons, and also vanishes

  August 19 Mrs. Pollifax's room at the Hotel Reforma or 20: Intercontinental entered and searched.

  Bishop was thoughtful. "I see what you mean. Why go to the bother of keeping the bookstore open after DeGamez' demise, and why search Mrs. Pollifax's room, if they'd gotten what they wanted."

  Carstairs nodded. "Exactly. It implies a certain lack of success. If General Perdido had gotten the microfilms from DeGamez before DeGamez was killed, then I don't really see what purpose was served by his turning into a bookstore clerk to set a trap for Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell. And that's another thing: their including Farrell bothers me very much. Farrell’s only link with the Chinese Reds was the friendship with Miss Willow Lee that he was busy cultivating at our orders. He had no knowledge of either Tirpak or Mrs. Pollifax, and as to the microfilms, he didn't even know of their existence."

  Bishop nodded. "Snatching him does imply desperation on the part of General Perdido."

  "Yes. And that's why I'm reasonably sure that he chose to keep Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax alive—at least for a day or two. And that, my dear Bishop, is why I am not sleeping well these nights, because General Perdido's methods of extracting information are neither polite nor pretty."

  "But Mrs. Pollifax had no information to extract," pointed out Bishop. Carstairs gave him a hard look. "Let's not be naive, Bishop. Do you think Perdido would believe that?"

  There was a long silence during which Bishop tried to think of something tactful to say. Finally, with a forced brightness, he concluded, "Well if Perdido doesn't have the microfilms, that's something, isn't it?"

  Carstairs gave a short laugh. "Oh yes—yes, indeed. It means they're lost to everyone, floating in space, so to speak, and of no use to anyone. If they were appended to a book sold in DeGamez' shop then someone at this very moment may be reading that book, never realizing that it's the repository of secrets costing eight months work and the lives of innumerable people who would otherwise be alive today. And that is what I call waste. Where is the telegram sent to Mrs. Pollifax's next of kin?"

  Bishop drew copies from his file. "Here they are, sir. They went off late yesterday from Mexico City; this one to Mr. Roger Pollifax in Chicago, this one to Mrs. Conrad Kempf in Arizona."

  Carstairs read them with irony:

  HAVING WONDERFUL TIME STOP POSTPONING RETURN A WEEK OR MORE STOP MEXICO CHARMING STOP LOVE TO ALL MOTHER

  Twelve

  General Perdido returned to the cell the next afternoon, but Mrs. Pollifax had been forewarned by the sound of his voice in the hall. The general, entering, found Mrs. Pollifax playing a quiet game of solitaire and Farrell tossing feverishly on his cot.

  "Good afternoon," said Mrs. Pollifax coldly.

  "Where?" shouted Farrell, thrashing feebly. "Take the green ones away, for God's sake!"

  Both the general and Mrs. Pollifax turned to look at Farrell, one with exasperation, the other with admiration. To the general Mrs. Pollifax said bitingly, "I have set his leg but he still has a bullet in his arm and I am not Dr. Schweitzer. The wound is infected. "General Perdido crossed the cell to Farrell and looked down at him. "Senor Farrell," he said harshly.

  Farrell opened his eyes and stared into the face above him.

  "Carmelita?" he said tenderly, and then, hopefully, "My darling?"

  General Perdido drew back his arm and sent his fist crashing against Farrell’s cheekbone. There was a sickening sound of bone meeting bone. Mrs. Pollifax turned away and thought, "I really can't bear this."

  There was, for the next few minutes, a great deal more to bear. The general was a thorough man, a determined and an intelligent man, and he intended to leave no stone unturned in his search to learn whether Farrell was shamming or if his mind could still be reached. Mrs. Pollifax moved to the attenuated window and forced herself to look beyond it to the narrow rectangle of stones glittering in the sun, and the thin slice of bleached white sky. "I won't listen," she thought. "I will detach myself forever from this room and this moment." It was an exercise in deception that she had practiced before but never so desperately as now. But when at last the general desisted she was more calm than he—the general's face was distorted with fury. Pausing with his hand on the cell door he said stiffly, "I will be going away until I am informed that Mr. Farrell is well enough to be questioned. You may tell him so. You may also tell him that I will look forward to his speedy recovery." He opened the door and turned back dramatically. "As for you, Mrs. Pollifax, you have inconvenienced me so greatly that I resent your very existence." The door slammed behind him and she heard the bolt drawn outside. Only then did she dare look at Farrell. "I think General Perdido has been seeing too many B movies," she said lightly, and wanted to cry at the sight of Farrell's battered face.

  Farrell sai
d evenly, his words slurred by two very puffy lips, "Let's give him to Hollywood then with our compliments." He sat up. "Did he break my nose, damn him?"

  Mrs. Pollifax sat down beside him and for the next few minutes they took inventory. The list was encouraging: it consisted of bruises, two loosened teeth—both molars—and a split upper lip; but there appeared to be no bones broken and Mrs. Pollifax felt it was reasonable to hope there was no concussion of the cheekbone. She said gently, "You managed very well. Have you had to endure this sort of thing before?"

  He glanced away. "Once, during the war. That was when I knew Carstairs." He looked at her thoughtfully. "There are limitations, you know, especially after the first time. The second time the mind knows what to expect. It anticipates. Actually the mind can become a worse enemy than the person inflicting the pain. But this was brief—mercifully."

  Mrs. Pollifax considered his words and nodded. "Yes, I see how that can be." She felt his forehead and sighed. "You still have a fever, you know. About a hundred and one, I'd guess."

  "But not the raving kind," he said, and winced as he tried to smile.

  "No, not the raving kind—you put on a very good act." She brought from her purse the package of cigarettes he had given her and held out the last one to him. "Could you manage this with your torn lip?"

  "Pure nectar," he said longingly. He took it and began Stabbing his mouth with it to find a comfortable corner for it. She lighted it for him and he inhaled deeply. "Duchess," he said gratefully, "I've known an incredible number of young, beautiful and nubile women—more than any one man deserves—but I would have to nominate you as the Woman I Would Most Like to Be Captured with in Albania. You are a true blessing to me in my old age—and I feel I'm aging pretty damn fast in this place."

  "Ah, you are feeling better, I'm delighted," said Mrs. Pollifax with a twinkle. She returned to her own cot, carrying her small table with her, and laid out her playing cards for a game of Clock Solitaire. "How did you fall into this preposterous sort of life?" she asked, thinking he might like to talk now. "This preposterous life with beautiful nubile women and General Perdidos in it. You're American, aren't you?"